until we die
by shadows and sunshine
Summary: She's seen too many harvests.' Rowena Ravenclaw and the colors of her life. -oneshot-


Hey, another one-shot! XD This particular one was written for both Bad Mum's "Slightly Odd Song-Quotes Challenge" and the "Another Drabble Challenge," using the prompts Rowena Ravenclaw and harvest. Oh, and the quotes "dancing?" "asking?" from British 70s Comedy by Liver Birds. (No, I've never actually heard the song, but…) The title comes from Vega 4's song "Life is Beautiful." Fitting.

xxx

_until we die_



i.

She's seen too many harvests. Too many autumns have come and gone, coloring the moors of her home beautiful russets and golds that match the vivid hues of the sunset.

And she runs her fingers along the wet, crunchy fall leaves that flee freely from the trees when the wind blows her dark hair across her face.

It isn't until she turns twenty-five that she starts counting each of these autumn leaves as a moment that's passed her by.

ii.

And that's why, when the other three are sitting beside her choosing their House colors, instead of choosing her two favorites, gold and orange, she picks blue, as far away as one can get.

"Blue, Rowena?" asks Helga, mild surprise coloring her voice.

"Blue," she confirms. Like the sky, like the ocean, like the empty stretch of life ahead of her, filled with empty moments like this.

iii.

On the first night of the opening of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, there are so many colors. Greens and reds and blues and yellows and blacks in the form of draping banners and shimmery fabrics and feathered hats.

There's so much, and her breath catches in her throat as she watches the dancers twirl and spin around her, and it doesn't bother her that she has no partner, not at all.

"Dancing?" says the green and silver clad body, eyes twinkling like yellow stars.

"Asking?"

And they come together, green and silver and blue and bronze, and even though the colors are all wrong, the moment isn't empty.

iv.

She smiles when she holds her newborn daughter above her head for the first time. And even though she sees _his _mouth twist into a frown as he stares at the child that isn't his, she turns pointedly away.

And then when she lowers her daughter to her chest, she gasps. The top of her head is covered with orange tufts of hair, silky smooth and whisker-thin beneath her fingers—

_(Orange like the fall, the harvest, the autumn leaves that dance and flutter in the breeze, little moments that blow away just as quickly)_

"Helena," she says; the name has fallen into her head and off her lips without any warning. But it fits her perfectly.

Despite the sneer and the scowl, this moment is perfect, but when she tries to recall it, all Rowena can remember is a bright flash of orange.

v.

Just like that, he's gone. There's no star twinkling eyes or serious, stubborn gazes and twisting, scheming hands, and the halls of Hogwarts seem empty.

But cruelly, his silver-and-green banners remain, taunting her, looking on coldly and she burns with shame under their glares.

And even though no one dares say it—it's too horrible to speak aloud, acknowledging the emptiness would mean knowing that the four founders had now become three—it's really all her fault.

Her cheeks flush red with guilt—

_(red as apples from the fall harvest)_

vi.

This time, when it's _her _that's gone, her daughter, her harvest-red-haired Helena, she doesn't just burn with shame, she burns with fever.

Her cheeks are hot and her hands are heavy and her lips are parched and it hurts to move—this is not like the harvest at all, there's no cool and crisp air to relieve her, no leaves to run her fingers through, just the worn edge of the blanket.

Maybe it's true what they say about dying, she thinks, the sharp, quick-witted Ravenclaw finally succumbing to old wives' tales in her final hours, that your life does flash before your eyes, because right now all she can see is the melding of colors as she danced on that opening night beside Salazar Slytherin, the flaming red top of her newborn daughter's head—

_(And then just as quickly as the cold comes and covers the autumn harvest with frost, the feverish burn to her cheeks dims and her breathing slows and her skin falls white, as pale as snow)_

xxx

I have to admit, I was a little concerned writing about a founder for the first time, but this actually came out pretty well, I think. I'm not really sure what the point was, but I like the prose and the comparisons. So yeah. Review and make me happy!


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